His Angel (Flying on Broken Wings)
by Mercy Daley
Summary: He lay dying on the warehouse floor, grace leaking out of him. Dean didn't know how he would survive without his angel. The searing of wings scorched across his chest, but he clung to the angel, his angel, as he felt the last of the grace leaving his angel's body. So this hurt my heart to write, but I had this idea in my prompt doc and I was like f it. Just write it.


_His Angel, Flying On Broken Wings_

* * *

The life was bleeding out of him, as he lay there, dying on the floor. His grace mingled with his blood, and seeped into the hard, unforgiving concrete. His head turned, in time to see a figure running over to him. Strong hands grabbed him, and held him to a warm body. Wetness was falling on his face, and he knew it was Dean who was holding him. Then he was lifted. Almost as though he was flying, one last time. He knew he wouldn't last, but if he spent his last moments with someone, he was glad it was Dean. There was no light in the sky, but that could be because his vision had clouded over already, the edges blurring in, forecasting his impending demise.

Then he felt the droplets on his skin; too heavy to be tears. Rain. Dean had remembered.

In the downpour, Dean stood with the angel in his arms, tears running tracks down his face, and the salty bitterness mixing with the freshness of the rain. He knew Cas didn't have too much longer, and he thought he would appreciate the feeling of rain, one last time. He found it ironic, that it would be raining today, of all days. The pattering reminded the angel of earth; it was his favourite type of weather. Dean had always remembered, the first time Cas went out in the rain. He had marvelled in the beauty of earth and the humanness of it all. Ever since then, he had had this fixation with rain; storms and downpours, right down to the tiny pattering drops that appeared every so often in spring. The water falling from the heavens had captivated him.

Dean never forgot the weird little quirks about the angel, _his_ angel.

* * *

There was not much longer left for Cas. It was as though the universe wanted him to feel everything he had felt since the moment he had come down to earth. Like he was meant to spend his last moments with Dean. As he felt his grace leaving his body, though, he realised something. If he died like this, in Dean's arms, he would leave his wings scorched on to Dean. A constant reminder of the angel who was no more. He couldn't leave Dean with that type of mark marring his beautiful body. He needed Dean to be whole after his death; to move on with his life. The scar on him would only serve to reopen old wounds. He couldn't do that to him; he _wouldn't_ do that.

Cas pushed away from the hunter's arms, struggling, with his last breath, but the hunter gripped him tight, and clung on to him for dear life.

Dean held on to the struggling angel, not leaving him in his last moments. Even he could tell Cas was almost gone. Almost ripped from his desperate clutches. But there was some fight left, and with that, he knew what Cas was doing. He was trying to push Dean away, so he didn't have to endure his death. He thought he knew what Cas was thinking, but he could never understand the depth of emotion the angel felt for him. There was love, but angel love is not as human love is. It is all consuming. It tethers the angel to the one they love; creates a profound bond. Dean had never understood the meaning behind the phrase Cas had always used, but it was more than just his awkward way of wording things, to Cas, at least. There was meaning to him. As Cas faded, he whispered to Dean, words so slurred as to be indecipherable, but dean didn't care, by then. Moisture leaked out of his eyes to join the rain and Dean's own tears.

The last bit of grace leaked away, now into the kneeling Dean's clothes, mingling with the rain.

The angel was gone, _his_ angel was gone. There was so much he needed to tell him. So much that Cas didn't know. How much Dean appreciated him, how much he loved that he would show up whenever he called, dropping everything for Dean. He loved the angel, damn it. Loved the unconditional devotion, the genuine care he had for both Dean and Sam. Dean needed to tell Cas how grateful he was that he had met him; he needed to tell Cas that everything would be okay in the end, that there was something. He needed to tell Cas that he was sorry for all the times they fought; for everything other than the mountains of praise which he so rightly deserved. He wanted him to be alive, so that he could tell his angel how much he needed him; how much he wanted him to be there, standing next to him, that angel on his shoulder, forever.

The scorching pain across Dean's chest was fire, but he clung to his angel, whispering sweet nothings until he drifted into oblivion.

But it was his angel, he cried out to the heavens. _His_ angel. And Dean didn't believe that he could live without Cas. He had a constant reminder, now, that the angel was no more, and there was no taking that back. He sunk to his knees, eyes welling with the tears that would never be shed, because there was no reason to cry anymore. There was no reason to do anything anymore. It was a cruel world, where Cas had to die, but the thing that did this to him got to walk free. Because a cruel world turns on its people, and that was all he was. A drop in the ocean of life. Meagre, insubstantial in the scheme of things. He needed to remember his place, now, more than ever. But was there even a reason to remember anything? He supposed he could just lie down and die, there. It would be less painful than living in a world without the angel. But, he thought, who would murder the scum that killed his angel?

A new vengeance blazed in his eyes.

He wanted revenge for his angel, and his angel deserved to be avenged. He knew what it was that had killed Cas. He knew the monster was still out there somewhere, and he knew he could eventually track it down. He would eventually track it down. It was a matter of when, not a matter of whether.

A blade struck home, lodging itself deep in his back.

There was just enough time for Dean to register the flash of pain, before he joined the lifeless angel on the ground. Blood tricked from the wound, and eventually found its way to his windpipe, where it flowed up his throat, spluttering from his mouth. He gave a weak cough, as he lay beside the angel, his angel. His amazing and wonderful Cas. He was strangely serene; at peace with the moment. With the revelation that he was going to die, lying in the gravel, outside a warehouse. The pouring rain offered him some comfort. That, and the already cold body next to him. He couldn't move, and he didn't want to, anyway. There was nothing to move for. Nothing to move to or from. He was right where he wanted to be. Dean supposed that if he was ever going to die, he was happy that it was next to Cas. He had made his peace with death a long time ago, taking on the hunter's life was not something he took lightly, that, and realising that death was waiting for him around every corner. He understood that he was never going to live a long life. He was just glad that he didn't have to live any more of it without Cas. Even if he were to find Cas' killer, what would he do? Kill the bastard and move on? He would have led a pointless life after that. He had died on his knees, but he had died fighting. Not for himself; for his angel.

* * *

Dean Winchester closed his eyes, and breathed no more. His body lay beside his angel, Castiel's.

Side by side, they lived, side by side they left this world. They were, the hunter and his angel, in every sense of the word. They helped people, they saved them; they were heroes. They hadn't always made the best choices, but they had always come through in the end. They had led hard lives, not always happy, living for others, instead of themselves.

Finally, they had got their reward. They were finally at peace.


End file.
